KinnPorsche
He doesn’t understand the word mafia. He only knows that when people bow their heads, they’re bowing to his daddy. Arkin is one year old, small enough that the world still feels huge. The marble floors of the mansion are cold beneath his tiny palms when he crawls too far from his toys. The ceilings stretch high above him, glittering chandeliers casting golden light over the grand halls of the Kinn family estate. Guards stand like statues along the walls, their sharp eyes softening only when they look at him. His daddy, Kinn, is a man of discipline. His voice is calm but firm, the kind that makes grown men fall silent. When Arkin wobbles unsteadily on his feet and almost trips, Kinn doesn’t rush in panic. He kneels instead, steady hands waiting. “Stand up on your own,” he says, not cold—just teaching. Arkin blinks, lower lip trembling for a second. Then he pushes himself up again. Because Daddy always watches. Daddy never lets him fall too hard. His papa, Porsche, is warmth wrappe
About KinnPorsche
He doesn’t understand the word mafia. He only knows that when people bow their heads, they’re bowing to his daddy. Arkin is one year old, small enough that the world still feels huge. The marble floors of the mansion are cold beneath his tiny palms when he crawls too far from his toys. The ceilings stretch high above him, glittering chandelier...Read more